


Daisy Boy

by MinHart



Series: Flower Garden [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Ballet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinHart/pseuds/MinHart
Summary: In those four years, Luhan tells himself that he does not remember that little red house. He tells himself that ballet is a foreign art, with foreign people and foreign love. In those four years, Luhan has nearly forgotten everything. Yet he does not forget the man who stole his smile at age twenty-three.[Sequel to Rose Jardin.]





	1. In Four Years [Prologue]

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: Depression, Major Character Death, Abusive Tendencies**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I wasn't planning on this. But I recently got inspired, and although I cannot promise that I will work on this consistently, this is food for thought. Thank you for caring so much about Rose Jardin, it is because of all the comments and love I got that I was able to forge a plot to complete the story of a boy whose letter remained at the end. :-)
> 
> To be honest, you can probably read this without reading Rose Jardin, although I wouldn't suggest doing so.
> 
> Rose Jardin is 224,000 words and I don't know how long this will be.
> 
> \- MinHart (tracy)

 

 

Luhan runs his flatten palm across the mattress, it’s as smooth as ever, except for the wrinkles in the bed sheets. The light hits the bed with a warm orange hue, the color of the air that wasn’t quite summer or autumn. He scrunches up the sheets under his hands, but the warmth of the light never does fall into his grasp.

Nothing has changed over the four years, not really. He’s older by four summers. He’s older by the number of rushed emergency room visits, and he's older now by the counts of faded memories, that are more summer-like than the blistering heat in Hong Kong.

There's a knock on his door, and a soft voice peeked through the cracks; mellow and full of worries.

“Come in.”

He’s older by how his English and Cantonese is better than his Korean these days.

Henry Lau makes a face. “You’re getting discharged today,” his eyes twinkling. “I’ll miss my favorite bastard.” In two strides, he hops on the bed beside Luhan, his nurse uniform crinkling.

“I’ll visit you often,” Luhan retorts, his hands twiddling around in his lap. “I’ll be here until the end of summer.”

Henry pouts, slugging his arm around Luhan with a sigh. “What other patient of mine would sneak in alcohol in the first week of rehab?” he asks playfully, taking a pinchful of Luhan’s cheek. He has gotten more on his bones in the past four years, thanks to Henry’s mothering tendencies.

“I’ll see to it that the other patients do too,” Luhan replies dryly, swatting away at his hand. “Don't fucking pinch my cheeks. I'm older, sweetheart.”

Henry scowls. He does the usual check up: lightly rummaging through Luhan’s drawers for anything inappropriate or threatening. At first, Luhan protested with balled up fists and cuss words that shocked Henry, but now he doesn’t care anymore.

“You know,” says Henry, as if reading his mind. “I feel kind of sad now. I’m not checking for your hidden alcoholic habits anymore, but to see if you left anything behind.” Henry grins, albeit sadly. Luhan doesn’t let it show on his face, but he harbors his emotions beneath his skin. Henry has been the only friend Luhan had made in the past four years in Hong Kong.

“Don’t be so sentimental,” Luhan says quietly, intertwining his fingers together. His cableknit sweater hangs heavily on his shoulders,covering him from neckline to hip with a fabric thick enough to hide the body of a thin and weary man. “Four years is a long time.”

Henry’s humming ceases to a stop. “You left something here, Lu.” He waves it around in his hand, looking curiously at it. “I thought you said you didn’t have any family. Who are these people?”

Luhan glances at it, ignoring how his chest constricts. Four years is a long time, but not long enough, he thought. There was the face of a young teenage boy, whose smile sacrificed his eyes for half-crescents. His arm slung around the face of a twenty-four-year-old Luhan. A skinnier and lanky-looking boy stood stiffly beside Luhan, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The three of them stood in front of a beat-up red house, looking lost and dazed.

“I don’t,” Lu says, his voice thin, “have family.”

“Then who are—”

Luhan staggers to his feet, shooting a look towards Henry, who recoils. “Just toss it in my bag. I have to go for fresh air.” He pauses, looking at Henry, who looks like an injured puppy. “You want to come with?”

Henry beams. “No smoking.” 

Luhan snorts. “You know I don’t anymore.”

***

“Are you really going back to Korea?” Henry asks shyly. He’s out of his work clothes, sporting a plain tee with jeans. Luhan frowns. In the past four years, Henry had never failed to cheer up Luhan, clinging onto him beyond the patient-and-nurse attitude expected of the rehab center. In all honesty, Luhan is happy for someone like Henry, who has been keeping him together in the cramped space at the center.

Luhan shrugs. “I don’t know, really. I don’t have anyone here.” Henry glares at him. “Any family, darling. I don’t have any family here. My Cantonese isn’t that good, anyways. It’s not my dialect.”

“And who’s waiting for you in Korea?” Henry asks. Luhan swallows thick saliva. It’s a harmless question; he knows Henry has no malice laced in those words. And yet, here he is, on the edge of the universe. “That photograph, with those two guys? Are they Korean?”

Luhan pretends to shrug halfheartedly. “Yeah, they’re Korean.” He keeps looking straight ahead. “Doesn’t mean they’re waiting for me in Korea.”

_I’m dead to them._

And that’s a truth.

Henry groans, nudging him playfully. “I’m real sick of your half-bullshit answers.”

“Then don’t ask half-bullshit questions.”

“I’m curious though.” Henry rolls up his sleeves, quickening his pace to match Luhan’s speed. “You never really talk about anyone else in your life. But you know everything about me. It feels… it feels unfair. Four years is a long time.”

“Four years is a long time,” Luhan echoes, his face softening. He kicks a pebble off onto the road. It’s just the two of them on the streets at night, with Henry’s hands in his pockets and Luhan’s fingers digging into his palms, leaving red streaks. Henry looks over at him with concern at the brim of his eyes. Luhan decides he will miss that look in Henry’s eyes. It feels nice, he thinks, to have someone look at you with uncertainty and affection. Someone used to look at him like that, he remembers with a half smile.

“They’re older now,” Luhan says after a while, surprising Henry for a moment. “Both are twenty-five now, I think. Fully-functioning adults.”

_They’re happy._

_I’m happy for them._

“Like you?” Henry tugs on his sleeve. It’s a habit.

Luhan laughs brittlely. “You shit. Most definitely not like me.” They stop to sit down on the benches, to which Henry’s face fell. “Sit down you fucking neat freak.”

Henry’s eyes are shiny. Luhan decides he will miss that too. He sits close to Luhan on the seat, their thighs brushing. Instinctively, Luhan moves away, averting his eyes. Henry doesn’t say anything, except nods and moves his hand away. Henry Lau, Luhan decides he will miss that name.

“Tell me more about the not-family portrait,” Henry murmurs, sounding sleepy. “I want to know more about my patient Lulu.”

“I’m not your patient anymore. And don’t call me Lulu, you prick.” Luhan coaxes for him to rest on his shoulder, even though he had pushed him away earlier. “What do you want to know?”

“What are their names?”

Luhan chuckles, his hand reflexively reaching to comb his bandaged fingers through Henry’s hair. They’re soft and silky, beckoning to be touched.

“I can’t say.”


	2. Hong Kong's Cloak

**H** enry fell asleep by the bed, one bare leg propped on a pillow that remains as a lump beside the bed. Luhan doesn’t bother with trying to drag him to the bed. Instead, he quietly drapes a blanket over his shoulders, to which stirred Henry in his sleep. Luhan scoffs under his breath, not wanting to wake up the poor nurse that has to go to work early tomorrow. Instead, Luhan shuffles into Henry’s kitchen, where an untouched meal for Luhan sits on the kitchen counter.

Luhan would be a liar if he says that eating is still tough for him, even after years of counseling. It’s a nice, simple meal, with a bowl of broth covered with saran wrap to keep it from sloshing around if he is to microwave it. Luhan looks down at himself, stretching out his pale arms for himself to see. His dark veins are like shadows under his skin, and his arms are not without blemish. Scars run down the side of it, overlapping one another. The most newest ones swell on top of the aged scars. If there is one thing Luhan is proud of to this day, is that the scars were not the products of self-hatred or self-harm. Luhan rolls down his sleeves, the heaviness of his sleeves brushing across his scars lightly.

Luhan sits down gingerly at the counter, sipping his broth with a dejected look. He catches his reflection in the shiny and metallic toaster in the corner, and the sight of his untended hair and dark circles startles him. It’s a bitter thought to him, that Joonmyun used to call him the most prettiest rose in the theatre. It has taken a few years of isolation and tarnished but unworn ballet shoes to remind him, _you are no longer the rose._

 _Kim Joonmyun._ Luhan sighs inwardly, just thinking about the name. The name ‘Joonmyun’ pricks him like a needle that threads through the thinnest layer of his skin until it bunches up, tearing off flesh and skin. That is exactly what the name is to him. Luhan pushes the bowl away, feeling sick. _Kim Joonmyun. Kim Joonmyun. Kim Joonmyun._

_How you have ruined me._

Luhan dumps the broth down the drain, where the bowl slips and clatters against the rim of the sink. He winces, realizing that to his horror, that there are the sounds of footsteps padding down the hallway.

He turns around slowly, mustering an apologetic look to his host. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to.”

Henry smiles a dopey smile, rubbing at his eyes. His pajama pants has risen up on one leg, resting in folds at his calf. Henry looks at the bowl in the sink, his boyish smile widening as he approaches the sink, arms reached out to squeeze Luhan’s shoulders with nothing but adoration in his eyes. Luhan looks away hastily.

“Did you eat it?” Henry asks, his voice thick with slumber. Luhan nods, not wanting hurt his only friend’s feelings. “That’s good. I’m happy that you ate. Was it good?” Henry, up close, reminds Luhan of all the prettiest boys in the theatre. His mouth is always in a state of twitching and up-curve, that smiled in the way that shows all of his teeth in perfect rows. The distinct difference between Henry and the ballet dancers is that the lack of empathy in the dancers’ face could never rival the warmth and forgiving aura that follows Henry around.

“It was alright.”

“You’re a picky bastard.” Henry leans back, releasing Luhan to go sit down on the sofa. He motions for Luhan to follow him.

“Aren’t you going back to bed?”

Henry pretends to think. “Aren’t you?” he asks. “Come sit with me. We can have a sip of wine.” He gestures towards the bottle sitting on the coaster with two conveniently placed glasses.

Luhan stares at it. “It’s nonalcoholic.”

“That’s the point.”

Luhan scoots closer to Henry, who drapes his around him. He pours them both a glass, to which Luhan scrunches his nose at. He cradles it in his hands, which shakes at the memory that surfaces. In the back of his mind, there’s an image that prods at him with a taunt. The look on _his_ face; the look of a young boy who squeezed his teddy bear with such desperation, begging for Luhan to stop drinking. To stop drinking that blood-red liquid that made him _so dizzy_ and _so sad._ Clamping his eyes shut, he frantically places the glass of wine down on the table, running his bruised fingers through his matted hair, breathing heavily.

_I’m sorry._

Henry jerks around, spilling some of the drink on his own shirt. He doesn’t seem to notice it.

“Luhan! Luhan, are you alright?” he asks, eyes wide with worry and shock. “It’s not alcoholic, you’re _fine._ You are okay Luhan.” He coaxes Luhan with his humming, making the older man slump in his arms, limp as if he were dead.

“I’m sorry,” Luhan rasps, calming down.

_What are you doing to yourself?_

_You’re King, Luhan._

Henry looks worriedly at him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested it.” Henry’s voice fades a bit. He moves the bottle away with his foot so that it isn’t so close to them. “Let’s get you to bed—”

“No,” Luhan mutters begrudgingly. “Sit and talk.”

“What?”

“I said, sit and talk.” Luhan calms down, pressing a thinly pale hand to his chest, over where his heart resides. Henry tentatively sits back down, with a considerably small but noticeable difference of space between them two. Henry holds up his head with his arm on the armrest, looking everywhere except at Luhan.

For a while, they don’t talk. Instead, Luhan listens to the sound of the minute hand tick to the same rhythm of his heart. Each _thump_ and _tick_ brings him closer to drowsiness, before Henry stirs in his rest, looking more wide awake than before.

“Are you really going to South Korea?”

Luhan narrows his eyes at him. “You already asked me that, darling.”

Henry puffs out an exasperated breath. Luhan takes this chance to rest his sharp chin on his skinny wrist. He leans back, admiring Henry for the first and last time in full, excruciating detail. Henry Lau is someone whose beauty is only admirable under the Hong Kong backdrop, where the night sky drapes over his shoulders like a cloak that drags behind his feet. It is very much different from the Seoul backdrop, where light decorates your arms and legs, intertwining like vines. It is nothing like the gentle yet massive view of Hong Kong. Henry Lau is someone just like that.

Luhan tries to imagine Jongin with the Hong Kong night around his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut, furrowing his brows to conjure up something, _anything._ Yet, he can’t find it in him to imagine the face of someone whose life is better off without him.

So he doesn’t think of Jongin. He tries not to.

“Yeah,” Luhan says. “I will go back to Seoul.”

Henry’s shoulders stiffens. “Am I not worth the stay?”

“Hong Kong isn’t home.”

Henry’s eyes are downcast. “And is Seoul your home?”

Luhan wants to say no, but isn’t willing to give Henry triumph. There are very few things Luhan wants to remember about Seoul. He doesn’t want to remember the little red house on the end of the street, and he doesn’t want to remember the harsh stage lightings or how his toes bleed through the cardboard in his pointe shoes. Luhan wants little to recall of the face that ran the theatre.

But there are precious things he left behind in Seoul; tucked behind years of pace.

“Seoul isn’t my home,” Luhan muses. “But I want to make it my home. For real this time.”

Henry rakes his hands through his messy hair. “Are you sure you can’t try to do that here?” he asks sadly.

Luhan yawns, pretending to doze off into sleep. Henry snorts, although it’s halfhearted. “You go to bed, you.” Luhan kicks him, making him whimper. “I’ll sleep on this couch.” Luhan makes himself comfortable on the squishy cushions, resting his head on a stiff decorative pillow. Henry doesn’t say anything as he walks into his bedroom, only to come out with a pillow and blanket that he hurls at Luhan.

“Here.”

“You fucking bitch.”

Henry waves at him before shuffling his way back to his bedroom, where he shuts himself in for the remainder of the night. For the next few sleepy hours, Luhan tries his best to weave himself a cloak of the Hong Kong night, only to find out—as suspected—they would not fit him. So Luhan falls asleep to the rhythm of his heart again, drumming to whatever minute hand on the clock danced with him.

***

_14 May, 2004_

_Yeonhui-dong, Seoul, South Korea._

 

_Seventeen years ago._

He’s here on a trip, is what he had told his parents.

Luhan bursts into a fit of chuckles, stuffing his balled up fists in his pockets to keep them from trembling with excitement. It had took him months upon months of scolding and getting beat up by his alcoholic manager to get to South Korea. Luhan scowls, thinking about the woman who was his boss at diner. She was a old hag with lipstick the same shade as the bruises she gave him, and a thin look to his glare that made her almost tolerable to look at. Luhan’s scowl turns into a found smile as he remembers the disgusted yet surprised look on his manager’s face when he said he was quitting.

 _Victory,_ he thinks with a wide smile. He hops on the mattress, rolling around with glee. He’s renting a one-room studio on top of a building for the next few months. That’s what he had told his parents, too, who are the only guilt he has. His guilt gnaws at him furiously, thinking about his poor, oblivious parents in Beijing. He maps out the lie in his head. He’s here with Yixing, studying abroad for the summer and exploring South Korea. Sounds plausible. Sounds filial.

Luhan peers over at the bathroom door, where Yixing is swishing around mouth wash to get rid of the raw fish taste in his mouth from earlier. He shows a small smile at particularly no one, but he imagines Yixing’s face with a gentle fondness. It isn’t long until Yixing opens the door, his face all coiled up with distaste.

“I don’t like raw fish,” he says sheepishly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Luhan laughs wholeheartedly, gesturing for his best friend to lean against him under his arm, where Luhan can run his small hand through Yixing’s untarnished hair.

Luhan kicks off his slippers, curling his legs in on the bed. They only have one bed in the studio, a used twin-size bed. Yixing has a bad back, so Luhan has decided they can’t sleep on futons. _“We’ll save up for another one,”_ Yixing had said on the plane. For now, Luhan thinks they will be just fine sharing the bed.

Yixing rolls onto Luhan with a groan. “Do you think we’ll survive in Korea? There’s plenty of ballet theatres in Beijing that are just as good, Luhan—”

“No,” Luhan cuts him off stubbornly. “We have to go to this one. Yixing-ah, we _have to._ Kim Joonmyun is the best of the best, honestly. There’s no better instructor in Beijing _or_ South Korea.”

Yixing looks amused. “Are you sure we can trust him as a teacher? I mean, the guy retired at what? Age twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-seven,” Luhan corrects him. “He’s twenty-eight now.”

Yixing looks at him, all playfulness colored out from his face. “I don’t trust someone that young.”

“He has trophies from the WBC and enough medals to fill up an entire wall!” Luhan continues excitedly, ignoring how Yixing rolls his eyes. “It’s better that he’s young. We don’t want old wrinkly men and women who are _so_ outdated to teach us, right? How else will we become—”

“The Seoul Theatre’s principal dancers, I know, I know. Honestly, Lu, how often do you think you repeat yourself?” Yixing asks, not unkindly. He reaches over to pinch Luhan’s cheeks almost lovingly, making Luhan redden like the apples on the counter.

“Just you wait, Yixing,” Luhan whispers, scooting closer to Yixing. “We’ll be the theatre’s best dancers in ten years’ time. Just you wait. We’ll be the next Kim Joonmyun.”

“Minus the whole, ‘ _Kim Joonmyun the Great gone batshit crazy’_ headlines,” Yixing deadpans. “What if he’s high when he’s instructing us? Have you even read the recent articles about him stripping at a Taiwan ballet banquet?”

Luhan’s smile grows even wider. “I told you, he’s modern.”

"Not my kind of contemporary."

Yixing scoots off the bed, hobbling all the way to his ballet flats that are hanging on a nail on the wall. It’s beaten and battered, but the two of them gaze at them with such adoration and excitement that the quality of the shoes hasn’t occurred to them. In the spur of the overwhelming moment, Yixing throws himself on Luhan with open arms, holding his friend’s skinny waist with a firmness that speaks to Luhan on many levels.

_I love you._

_Thank you._

_I’m here._

***

 

_19 August, 2021_

_Hong Kong_

 

“Are you going to throw them out?”

Luhan stares at the pointe shoes in his hands. It feels nostalgic to hold it in his hands. He runs over the flat, wooden part of the shoe, where the satin is all frayed up to the point where one could see the wood if they look hard enough. The subtle burnt marks on the ends of the ribbons where he trimmed it four years ago is still there, all limp and caving into the shoe.

At one point in his life, this would have been the most beautiful thing.

“Yes.” Luhan rises to his feet, holding them by the ribbons. Henry’s eyes widen, blatantly taken aback. He jumps right in front of Luhan, kicking the wastebasket away from Luhan’s reach. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, sugar-cakes, let me through.”

Henry shakes his head, looking cheeky. “You shouldn’t throw them away, Lu. You just shouldn’t.”

“I don’t dance anymore, dumbass.”

“But it’s apart of that Seoul you’re wanting to go back to.”

Luhan mutters under his breath. “If you didn’t want me to throw it out, why the _fuck_ did you ask me, you dim sausage?”

Henry stares at him, appalled. “ _Dim sausage_?”

Luhan ignores him. “Move, I need to throw these out.”

“Let me hold onto them,” Henry says, reaching his arm out to stop him. “I’ll return them to you one day. Just don’t throw them out. Please.” Luhan takes a moment to consider, but Henry is already snatching them away and cradling them in his arms.

Luhan stuffs his callused hands into his pockets. “You’re so weird.”

Henry looks at him seriously, unfazed. “You don’t have any photos with me. Not a single one in the past four years. This is as close as I have to remembering you.”

Luhan stiffens a bit. He thinks about the one photograph he has of the little red house and its dwellers, and his body shivers. It is in this moment, Luhan will never take another photograph in his life until he dies. Henry looks at him curiously, unaware of his conscious declaration.

“Keep it then,” Luhan says. “And give them back to me one day.”

Luhan has been staying with Henry for a little over two weeks. In those two weeks, Luhan tries his best to detach himself from Henry, yet the man clings onto him without a sliver of doubt. So he decides to stay—emotionally—and handle the feeling of separation on the plane. It hasn’t been the first time, he thinks. First wounds will always hurt the most. The second time is nothing.

“Do you have to wear that damned hoodie?” Henry asks, sounding a little peeved. “You have an amazing look to you now with more weight on you.”

Luhan shrugs. “I don’t look like a ballet dancer anymore.” He places his hand on his chest. This time, instead of feeling ribs, he feels flesh. “I’m no longer King of the Ribs,” _Jongin._

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know.”

Henry comes back with a pin-striped button down shirt. He tosses it at Luhan, who fumbles with it, unwilling to crinkle it. Wordlessly, Luhan folds it up and zips it into his suitcase along with the rest of his belongings. He realizes that he has very few possessions with him, and that light feeling can almost make him smile. Almost.

Henry’s face loses it’s charm for a moment. “I’m going to miss you. It’s going to be lonely in Hong Kong without you.”

Luhan stares at him for a considerably long time. “It’ll be lonely in Seoul without you, too.”

Henry doesn’t drive him to the airport. They decide that it’s the best thing for them both. Luhan drags the suitcase to the door, where he peers behind his shoulders to find Henry standing there for the last time, the Hong Kong backdrop around his shoulders.

 


	3. White Shirts

**F** or the first time in a while, Luhan cries.

It’s not something he’d like as a medal. It would weigh his neck down and snap it. Instead, Luhan tucks that secret in the back of his mind. Rubbing away at his reddened nose, he reaches for his back pocket absentmindedly. The slight irritation and confusion when his hands come up empty is the only familiar thing to him.

_ Right,  _ he thinks.  _ No more smoking.  _ Instead, he digs through his carry-on bag for the stash of lollipops, courtesy of Henry. Luhan quietly unwraps the sweet before sticking it in his mouth. It’s not the same; no more smoke in the space of his cheeks, no more pinching the ashes after the remains and no more.

No more.

“Pathetic,” he mumbles around the candy. In all the desperate measures Luhan had reached in order to stray away from Kim Joonmyun—he is now the embodiment of the sick bastard. Luhan looks down at the prints on his palms, and wonder how his life had turned out so poorly. In a handful of years, Luhan had learn to go  _ en pointe,  _ how terrible it feels and how terrible the glares from Yixing were. It had broke him, in some ways, back then, the way Yixing backs away from his touch and his glances. To go  _ en pointe,  _ he learned, was to go into isolation. And yet, in a handful of years, thirty-four hits him with bruising force, taking everything away.

Luhan scowls. The strawberry-flavored lollipop tastes bitter.

“You’ll be fine Luhan,” he whispers to himself, dragging his luggage across the asphalt. “No more ballet, no more sadness, no more bullshit.” He rests the suitcase against a bench, where he quickly calls for a taxi. It feels oddly comforting to be speaking in Korean now. It’s a gentle feeling that squeezes him, lightening the burden on his chest.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

“Fuck off,” he says.

“Lovely,” a voice rang dryly. “You’re just as stunningly pleasant as ever.”

“What do you want, Henry?” Luhan hurls the lollipop at the sidewalk, and the scattered and broken pieces of the candy nested itself into the cracks. “Don’t you see, I’m running away from you. This is me, Luhan, running away from you. Exhibit A, I am not in Hong Kong. Exhibit B, I am not there with you. Exhibit C, I am—”

“—You are Luhan, a broken and selfish man,” Henry finishes, sounding a bit peeved. “Yes, Luhan, we understand your lifelong goal of leaving me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s a first.”

Luhan lowers his voice, even though no one is around. “I just need time, Henry. There’s some things I left behind in Seoul and you’re someone I left in Hong Kong because I don’t want you to see what I broke in Seoul. Henry, I don’t want you to see what sort of destruction I’ve created and the mess I’ve made in my home.”

“Home?” Henry says, quietly. “So it’s still home to you, huh?”

Luhan hesitates. “No.”

“Don’t lie to me.” There is the sound of a saddening thump. “You of all people, don’t lie to your nurse. Your  _ friend,  _ God damn. Your only friend, at that.”

“Don’t have to rub it in.” Luhan mumbles a goodbye and hangs up, feeling a bit empty. He doesn’t want to continue bickering with Henry, knowing full well that he can feel his annoyance across a bit of water. Luhan curls into a small ball off the side of the road, and buries his face into his jeans.

And he breathes for the first time in what felt like forever.

***

Luhan sighs, slumping down on a bench in front of some wacko art studio. He stares at him with a twitching eye. It’s a tall building with a sign written in obnoxious bubble letterings. Right under it, in a more refined and readable print, it says ‘ _ art studio, classes, exhibits.’  _ Scoffing, he turns aways from it, fiddling with his buttoned up sleeves. It’s a very Henry look, in all honesty. He wonders if Henry would laugh and point fingers at him, if he is to see Luhan in such a more ‘mature’ state.

Shaking the thought of his friend off his mind, he continues chewing on his straw irritably. Seoul—no, Hongdae itself hasn’t changed in the slightest, with indie bands playing their covers of hit artists on the side of an already busy road, and childish art studios wedged in between a chicken diner and a stationary store.

It has been a few days since his last phone call with Henry. He’s afraid of Henry’s voice, the way it chides you yet binds you to a loving concern. Luhan hates it, despises it. Henry would laugh, probably, if he knew Luhan was living in a small, nearly unbearably sized office-tel that was maybe a forth of a size of Henry’s place.

To be fair, Henry lives in a spacious apartment. Fucker.

In a sense, Luhan does fit the scene: an ex-ballerino sitting lazily on a bench in front of said-childish art studio. When his straw makes that vacuum sound, indicating that there is nothing left at the bottom but ice, he heaves himself off the bench to toss it away.

“Watch out!”

A frazzled looking man hurdles his way out the studio, carrying a box of what seems to be art supplies. Luhan bursts in a string of Chinese swears, jumping back from the man, and in turn slams his already poor waist into the bench. Luhan hisses in intolerable pain, hands flinging out to cling onto his waist. The artsy man seems a bit bewildered, with yellow paint smeared on his cheek and with specks of it stemmed deep in his hair.

Luhan regains his composure a little bit, but the pain in his waist spreads like wildfire. He doesn’t fail to shoot a withering glare towards the man, who recoils, bringing up the box to his face, shielding himself from Luhan’s eyes.

“You,” Luhan starts off slowly, staggering to his feet. “You fucking—”

“I’m sorry!” the man squeaks, his eyes wide with horror. He shrinks back when Luhan stands up, inching closer to him. They’re practically the same height, although the other man seems smaller in stature, with the baggy sweatshirt and ripped jeans. “I didn’t see where I was going, and I slipped on the wet floor in the studio and I didn’t see you there because the box was blocking my view and—”

Luhan growls and straightens up, but winces instantly. The kicked puppy look on the other man fades into concern. He drops the box on the ground near the trashcan, before reaching his hands out Luhan.

“Are you okay?” the other man asks with genuine distress. His voice wasn’t soft like Henry or Jongin, but more like a cheery wake up call on certain days. Luhan turns away from his touch, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. “I feel bad. No, no, I feel  _ awful.  _ Shit, I’m sorry. If you come into the studio, I have a first aid kit and drinks. I hope you like fruit juice pouches.”

Luhan snorts. “Listen, darling. I’m fine.” He pulls away from him. “I also don’t see a reason why I should trust you to tend to my wounds.” Luhan grins. It’s a terrible one.

The stranger huffs, standing his ground. “What? You don’t trust me because I run an art studio.” Luhan nods, baffling the other one. “Well, my best friend is a doctor, and I know a thing or two about first aid kids. I also fall down a lot, so I got experience.” He says the last part a bit sheepishly. He gestures for Luhan to follow him. “It’ll be quick. I’d feel bad if I let you go like that.”

He reaches out, cupping Luhan’s hand and pulling into the studio. If four years hasn’t taken a toll on him, Luhan thinks there would’ve been a chance that this stranger would’ve been on the ground, and Luhan’s knuckles cut and bruised.

If four years hasn’t taken him away.

If four years hasn’t been a thing.

If four years,

“Oh, and mind the wet floor!” the man says cheekily, hurrying Luhan to a room in the back, where he assumes the first-aid kit is. “Sorry about that, again. We’re low on staff now because everyone has an overbooked class. Our instructors basically half-ass everything that includes cleaning. I’m part of the problem.”

Luhan pretends not to care, although he can’t help but follow the stranger’s eager words. He looks around the studio. It’s a fairly large building, with canvases stacked up near the wall and shelves upon shelves of art supplies. Yet, there is a very minimalistic edge to the whole place, with flower vases propped on the window sills, and their meanings on post-it notes under them.

“My name is Byun Baekhyun,” the man, Baekhyun, announces out of the blue. He unlocks the door after dragging Luhan upstairs into what seems to be a break room. “I own the studio. I’m Hongdae’s best artist, give or take. My friends says I’m kidding myself, and that my ego is bigger than my salary, but I work with my own name.” He winks, his smile widening.

Luhan stares at him, blinking. “What makes you think I care?” he drawls in that voice that makes people close to him wince, and strangers repel. Yet, Baekhyun remains on his feet, as if he hasn’t heard a single thing.

“You don’t have to. It’s just nice to talk to other people.” Baekhyun beckons for him to come in. He rummages through the cluttered shelves, obviously looking for the first-aid kid. “And what’s your name, pinstripe?”

“ _ What  _ did you call me?”

Baekhyun points to his shirt. “You’re wearing pinstripes.”

Luhan has a feeling that he can’t exactly argue with this man. “It’s Luhan, just Luhan.” He averts his eyes. “I didn’t realize we’re on a first name basis, sweetheart.”

Baekhyun laughs, and it sounds like honey. “I didn’t realize we’re calling each other pet names now, Luhan.” He stops laughing. “ _ Luhan,  _ you say? Huh. Sounds… almost familiar. Is it a common name? Where you’re from?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s common. Just as common as Baekhyun is.” Luhan shrugs. “Why? Know someone by the name?”

Baekhyun shakes his head, opening the kit. “Nah, don’t think so. I just heard it somewhere.” He turns his head so that its resting on his shoulder. He has a quirk to him, Luhan thinks, that is unlike all the people he has seen in the streets of Hongdae. “So what’s with you?  _ Luhan-ssi _ ? Touring around?” 

Luhan clears his throat. “No, not exactly.” He kicks at the floor with little to no effort. “I live here now. In Hongdae. Rent’s cheap, and there’s pretty girls here.” Luhan utters the last part with a defeated look to him. It sounds like what Luhan says— _ should  _ say, yet it feels like filth and iron in his mouth.

If four years hasn’t been so long.

“Ah,” Baekhyun makes an O shape with his mouth. “I live here, too. Upstairs, actually.”

He points up at the ceiling with his dainty fingers. Baekhyun pulls on a strand of his baby blue hair that is equally obnoxious to his building. His hair remains looking soft and untarnished, even with all the harsh chemicals clinging onto each strand. Baekhyun seems to notice Luhan’s amusement, and returns his look with a snap of his long fingers. Baekhyun raises an eyebrow, and Luhan just shrugs.

“You have blue hair.”

“And you have a pretty face,” Baekhyun shoots back, unfazed. “Has anyone told you that? _ ” _

Luhan goes cold all over his body. Biting down on his lower lip, he forges a cheap smile. “A couple have, give or take.”

Baekhyun doesn’t notice it at all. Instead, he strides over to where Luhan is, with an ointment in his hand and a peel-off bandage. Luhan eyes it curiously, reaching for it before the other man snatches it away, shaking his head.

“Let me do it,” he murmurs. He goes to untuck Luhan’s shirt, eyeing him carefully for approval. Luhan nods stiffly, letting the near stranger do what he has to do. “So what do you do for a living, Luhan-ssi? You look like you work in an office.”

Luhan chokes down a laugh. He stops himself before Baekhyun, a blue stranger, catches onto the sound. Instead, out comes a muffling sound, peaking Baekhyun’s interest.

“No,” Luhan says, “I just moved to Seoul recently.”

Baekhyun’s ears twitches, and Luhan decides that Baekhyun is very much indeed, like a puppy. His almost-feminine fingers grazes across the cut on his waist, where his fall had been hard enough to break the skin. Baekhyun’s delight dampens into a frown before he starts to dab the greasy ointment onto the cut. Luhan winces, before he realize that Baekhyun’s fingers are trailing upwards.

“You have other scars, too,” Baekhyun observes, concern dripping from every word. “Do you fall this often?” His hand ghosts over the welts of old cuts and injuries, making Luhan shiver before coming to his senses.

Luhan narrows his eyes and jerks away, hastily slapping on the band-aid and pulling his shirt down. “We’re not close enough for you to touch me like that, Baekhyun-ssi.”

Something taunts him in the back of his mind, like sharp nails scrapping his shoulders and neck, reminding him of all the men and women whose skin he had ruined, and in turn they had ruined him. Luhan shuts his eyes, trying to shake the feeling away. When he opens his eyes again, he sees the look of a gentle yet bewildered Baekhyun, who is standing a few footsteps away.

“Thanks,” Luhan forces out of his mouth, before turning to leave. “For the first-aid kit.” He hurries downstairs, the sound of his shoes resonating off the paintings on the wall. Even in a rush, Luhan can still see the signature on the bottom of each one, along with a date.  _ Byun Baekhyun 11.17.20. Byun Baekhyun 08.01.14. Byun Baekhyun 02.12.19. _

“Wait!” Baekhyun shouts, stumbling forward and grabbing onto Luhan’s sleeves. “Wait, Luhan-ssi! Can I ask you something? Or give you an offer? Here me out.”

Luhan stuffs his hands in his pocket, his eye twitching irritably. He turns around on his heel, meeting face to face with a flushed face Baekhyun, which oddly complements his wildly blue hair and yellow paint. The artist points to the sign, HELP with hopeful eyes and a half smile.

“We really need the extra hand around here. I need someone to help me maintain my class with me and clean the supplies. It has been so hectic around here and I,” he pauses, and for the first time, Luhan can see the dark hues under his eyes. “I really need someone to help me around here. And you just said earlier that you’re looking for a job, and the pay is really good, I swear! I’m really, really generous! Maybe it’s not the environment if you’re looking to wear, I don’t know, pinstriped dress shirts and stuff, but I’m sure this is fate. I mean, I just bumped into you—”

“Shut up.”

Baekhyun stumbles over his words. “I, huh?”

Luhan looks around, humming. Baekhyun seems to be hanging off every action with that kicked puppy expression. Luhan looks down at his shoes, which covered his battered feet from more than a decade’s worth of ballet.  _ All this time,  _ he thinks,  _ all those years.  _ All those pointe shoes that stacked up in his closet and all those bathroom visits at 2 AM, and finally, he’s standing in the middle of an art studio, ran by an eccentric blue man.

It’s a chance to start over.

“Well,” Luhan muses. “It wouldn’t be the first damned time I worked with a crazy man for a boss.”

“Crazy?” Baekhyun splutters. “I’ll have you know,  _ crazy  _ is nothing in art school. You know, I had a friend who stuck his entire legs in hot wax as he painted a portrait.” Baekhyun eagerly rushes to Luhan’s side, grabbing onto his sleeve.

“I didn’t say you could touch me.” Luhan bores his eyes in Baekhyun, who doesn’t mind at all. “What kind of fucked up world do you live in,  _ Baekhyun-ssi _ ?”

Baekhyun grins. “I’m just happy to find a new co-worker. I’ve been so stressed out, I haven’t been free of paint in weeks!” Luhan scrunches his nose in near disgust, slipping away from Baekhyun. “I’m actually free for an hour before my next class, so do you want to fill out a form and eat?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Come on!” Baekhyun pouts. “I really need to get to know you. After all, I am Boss Baek.”

Luhan frowns. There is something unsettling about Baekhyun. There is nothing about him that screams at Luhan, but there was an odd gleam to his eyes, as though he knew things that Luhan does not want to know—and Luhan knows  _ too many things  _ these days. If these past few years had taught him anything, however, it was to live a little. Luhan sighs, as close to exasperation as he could get today, and unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt and loosens up his sleeves.

“You got a looser shirt I could borrow?” Luhan asks under his breath. “This fucking crap isn’t me. I’m not pinstripes and formality.”

“Well, what are you?” Baekhyun asks, his smile widening.

Luhan starts to unbutton the rest of his shirt until he’s only in a white tank top. He winces a bit, remembering the scars that seem nearly silver on his body. Baekhyun doesn’t notice them, and if he does, he doesn’t say a word. Baekhyun takes a few steps back without turning his body to a closet. In it, is a bunch of paint splattered aprons and a few spare shirts. How convenient.

“I’m ribbons and unfulfilled expectations,” Luhan spits out, and takes the white t-shirt Baekhyun hands him. It looks like the one Baekhyun is wearing, except untouched of paint and whatever art supply Baekhyun has going on his sleeves. “On Tuesdays, I’m an old man in his thirties learning how to dance.”

“You want to learn how to dance? Me too!” Baekhyun exclaims. “What kind of dance?”

Luhan’s smile is stiff. “I don’t know, ballet maybe.” He scrunches the shirt in his grip. “Wouldn’t it be nice? To learn how to do ballet?”

Baekhyun blanks. “Well, I’m more of a tap-dancing kind of guy, but ballet is cool. I know someone who does ballet, and he’s  _ amazing _ ! He’s like, what do you call it, prince-y something?”

“Principal?” Luhan suggests.

“Yeah! Recently, too! Wait, how did you know the terms?”

Luhan shrugs, and slips the shirt over his head. “I told you, I’m interested in it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it has been a while. I've been out of KPOP for a long, long time and found it quite hard to come back and write fanfiction. I've been working on an original project for a couple of months now, and I've only written 30,000 words in a few months. It baffles me, honestly, because I don't know how I managed to write so much for Rose Jardin yet struggle with this original project. 
> 
> I think it might be because it's in first person and past tense? I'm not really good at those. I was looking at comments on Rose Jardin and Sidewalk Cracks and it encouraged me to write, and I really want this story I'm writing to be loved, too. I really want to share it with you guys but it's not fan fiction so I highly doubt anyone would read it :(
> 
> TBH I could just replace the names and it would be another one of my depressing fanfics:
> 
> _Elliot-Kaine Saito is in search of the most beautiful person in the world, after a disturbing yet alluring woman who captured his fascination had suddenly drop dead from an overdose one summer night. Years of outcast caused by his name had built up to his title of social recluse. Elliot-Kaine hides away from other nineteen-year-olds, and tries to forget the woman, whose real name is forever lost. It is only when a gorgeous yet dazed Arthur Bishops shows up in front of Elliot’s feet, offering a peculiar friendship that guides them down a joint pathway of unimaginable and sickening expectations._
> 
> _Elliot-Kaine Saito has found the second most beautiful person in the world._
> 
> So yeah, that was a life update. I'm sorry for not updating this sequel in a long time, and that the chapters are really short. :(


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